


a gentleman's prospect

by mikethemechanic



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikethemechanic/pseuds/mikethemechanic
Summary: Originally inspired by 'Tired Tired Sea' the fan-fiction follows a young women living in an isolated town, alone with just her dog, that soon meets an adventurous boy who isn't supposed to be here.
Relationships: Calum Hood/Original Character(s), Calum Hood/Original Female Character(s), Calum Hood/You





	a gentleman's prospect

It was the sweetest of things, too sweat, to feel the stress rise up and out of my skin with each molecule of water, and normally, I would feel the same. I run, feet kissing the land. Perhaps a little while ago I would have balked at idea of running so far and fast, now I relish the prospect. These feet were made to travel at speed and as light as the paws of a lioness. I converted emotional pain into miles ran. It was become fit or surrender. I've been running since noon, the balls of my feet slapping the ground with no more grace than a sack of wet concrete and my eyes droop. Up. Down. Up. Down. I have mastered a pattern.

Every time I exercise it's as if sensible "me" is dragging lazy "me" in on a rope. Sensible me wants to be in shape, lazy me wants more and more tv time... I gotta be in sensible me's corner on this. I gotta. I turn another corner, Im going in circles. My neighbors have seen me pass hundreds of times but they do not dare mutter a word, just stare in wonder as the crazy women passing starts to drip. Maybe, If I was lucky, the ground would freeze and I could skate across, not breaking a sweat. Only If I was lucky. I was never lucky.

As I aged the boundary between daydreams and delusions grew thinner. Once, I conjured marvel-like alternate selves to be super heroes, now I began to wonder if I was one. No more was it an out of reach daydream, the chance if it being me that saved the world grew ever more sharply into focus, the plan etched out slowly so as not to scare me back into my shell. I liked to daydream, but don't we all? Sometimes I challenge myself, writing everything down in order to keep track of my thoughts and sometimes, return. The poems and thoughts could become songs, pretty ones at that, but I have no mental capacity, and lord know if I did, I'd finnaly be happy.

I turn another corner, almost done. _Thank god_. I don't like thinking. Behind me I hear a sharp, small, subtle bark. Theres noises as well, the clasps of collars and a small patter of paws. I'm not turning around, if I stop, I won't start again. The noises don't stop, of course, nothing ever does. Whatever it is, it's following me. I pick up my pace, faster and faster, until I hear it no longer. It's gone for now. The sweat from before not only circles my neck by now, but pools down, creating a trail down my back, visible to the judging neighbors.

It's behind me again, and whatever it was, was no friend of mine. Distance was all that mattered. I wasn't stopping for anything and I sure as hell wasn't taking my foot of the gas for a little sound. Yeah, well that sound grew, not only from behind her, but from above. A storm was coming, quickly. I stopped, finnaly, and froze as my limbs emerged throughout tense and aggravating pain. The was my own fault, but the wetness looping around my leg reserved no help. I turn around, there before me, is a dog. The least of my suspicions but of course it is cute, staring at me then and sitting almost on command. This dog is trained

With an elevated step it comes closer, it is a dog small enough to fit in the arms of a child. At first I am curious, then as I crouch there is a chirping-bark. "Oh," I say, "are you feeling afraid, little one?" I keep my voice sweet. Soon the dog comes closer to my outstretched hand and, after a few sniffs, gives a lick. "Kisses... why... thank you."

The dog's head is smaller than his neck. He stands in his harness of thick leather, tethered by the kind of rope you could moor a yacht with. For all that muscle he leaps like a puppy and then pushes his body into mine as soon as I'm close enough. In seconds my hand is covered in slobber, his tongue of sandpaper almost dripping with every lick. His tail isn't wagging side to side but going round and round like a helicopter blade; any happier and I think those dinner-plate paws might catch some air. He must have an owner, yet no one has followed, and as the rain touched his skin, he had no where to go other than with me.

The clouds that gather, a silver-fade, from the strongest of grey to soft whites, have command of the skies today. I love the sky before a storm; I love the grey's of every shade and depth. I love storms, but not today, not when I am in the middle, stranded in my house with a small canine. The storm in the city power-showers the streets with sweet drops of clearest rain and is hell upon my cheep windows. It is cold outside, I knew that, but looking at the thermostat it could've snowed, and soon, it did. I wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, that was for sure.

The one with “Duke” on the wire mesh collar has a way of watching me. His eyes are wider than a baby and he tilts his head one way and the other. I can't imagine what goes on in that over-protected cranium but he wags his tail like he wants to take-off every time I even take a mis-step in his direction. He looks like there's some labrador in him, possibly crossed with a German Shepard. He looks like a guy who could run all day and still be eager to go again. His jowls are almost grinning. He has the speed of a puppy but his teeth are adult. Then he turns around as if to leave but returns with a tennis ball, dropping it by the gate and looking me straight in the eyes.

I don't think I'm gonna choose to be a caretaker today, I think he just chose me.

The Tv is on, loud. Speaking is a women, mid thirties easily and she's making heavy eye contact. every now and again she shifts, twirling her hair in her finger and licking her lips, much like most girls at club bars, she is aroused. There must be something about this camera man. She's a pretty lady no doubt, with the muscles of a footballer and the fat of a baby. Her makeup is careful, around male coworkers, it has to be, but I know it was not put on by herself. I can't help but notice the dog is watching, both me and her, shifting his head between the two, tongue out. I'm no dog whisperer, I only ever tolerate them, but looking at him I can tell he is thinking my thoughts.

I don't know what he eats, he's a picky one for sure. I'm pottering in the kitchen now and the neighbors must hear me, they're very observant people, no doubt. I have no dog food. I can't go out and buy dog food. Hotdogs it is. I'm no cook either, obviously I am not much things, but as I place it on the floor, he eats like a happy dog. His nose is wet, he doesn't look unpleased and he is probably not sick. Nothing that I can catch, anyways. I pet him, I know to do that and I know how, I was a little girl once.

He's content. I am not. Looking in the mirror it was easy to tell I looked like dog shit, not like Dukes though, I'm sure he pleasurably pooped. He looked like a fancy dog and his owner must take pride in such a thing. I see myself, the mirror was no more than a shard. It was all that was left of their house on the hill. I had returned to the rubble in the cover of twilight to find my locket once, the one with my mother's picture. It was risky with the Enforcers about. They carried weaponry not allowed by Ordinaries. I had not found the locket, and I still pined for it, but my eye had been drawn to a reflection of moonlight and I had found it there.

The mirror itself had been displayed in the grand entrance, it was taller than me, five feet maybe and was most exquisitely framed with gold. My mother used to gaze in it before she left the house, straightening her hat and brushing imaginary dirt from her cherry red jacket. I smiled momentarily, but then it faded, It was the last thing left of that house and now it sat in my pathetic excuse for a home, with a dog who liked to stare at himself. I don't think he moved once.

The sweat that surrounded every inch of my skin had faded into a god-awful smell, the one thing keeping the dog away. I take a bath. Soaking in that heated water, feeling it hug every inch of skin so gently, breathing in the aroma of the bubble bath. It was my heaven, my mini-vacation, a place to breathe deeply and let my inner peace return. I loved it that the bathroom was only a bath, that you opened the door and stepped down into the tub, as if it were the world's most tiny swimming pool. Normally bath time was a heady combination of bliss, the memories of childhood glee combined with the mature joys relaxation brings, but as the canine as stammered into my pool room, he watches me once more.

It's creepy and if he wasn't a dog, he would've gotten himself slapped. I think he wants to join me and as he paws the edge of the bath, followed by his whining, I am sure he might jump in. I kick him, softly, because even though I did not trust him, I am not a bitch. he moves forward, slowly, and seats himself. Another whine. "Leave me alone." He doesn't listen, I use his name, stern as a punishment may be enforced, but I have no idea how to punish such a difficult thing.

I thought he would listen, I was stupid. Duke places these next steps carefully, he's thinking, by now I know he's not one to act so strikingly, but who am I to say such thing. Maybe he was cold, maybe he just wanted to be comforted, but those are not good enough excuses when I am pounded with both water and a small dogs ass. One I only had the pleasure to meet a couple hours ago. Maybe it was his helicopter tail that allowed him to jump so high, maybe it was just his excitement, but he lands on my chest with a sharp thump, nails and everything. One does not prefer nail marks on her boobs, not one given by a dog anyways.

He takes a while to dry, all that soft plush fur simply drenched and the robe around my waist and the bandages on my boobs are no match to keep my anger inside. I smack his nose, not softly, not this time. I hear his cry. It hurts me. I am not one to act as such and I am certainly not one for violence, but I am in pain and have a short temper, especially on a day like today. I apologize as much as one humanly can, I pet him, I kiss him. But of course he is not as friendly as before, he does not trust me anymore. Something like trust was always such a challenging thing to obtain once lost, and now I am the one who has crossed the line.

I underestimated the cold that night, not like me at all, and I can’t sleep with this load to warm. Frost grew over the windows even as the duvet kept me warm. I watched the ice-crystals grow for a while, allowing my brain to be empty, content to exist and be. The morning would bring the beauty of the ice for sure, that crunch under boot and the bold greeting cold air brings. Yet between now and watching my breaths rise as new white-puffed clouds there will be a very cold night. The kind that only stops at the doors of the well-made houses. Someone is at my bedroom door and I watch as it cracks, light seeping in. I see a tail, soft and brown, watching as it follows me to my bed. It is a soft jump this time and as he curls into my arms, I know I had gained his trust once more.

&

I take him to work with me, Duke. He's happy to get out and I'm happy to be free. The cobblestones are wet with the night's rain and made slippery by the wintry temperature, casting the water film into ice. My worn shoes slip and bend, were there any sharp edges I'd feel them though my thinning grey socks but these over-sized pebbles were pounded smooth by the Atlantic ocean long ago. The road is one carriage wide with slim pavements at the edge. As always I take my chances with the traffic, walking in the middle of the street; a better choice I feel than receiving a bucket of sewage or bath-water from an upstairs window.

The crocked houses that are build without gaps, save the odd alley to the long gardens behind. The homes are either redbrick with bare ivy tendrils reaching the rooftops or the Tudor style, white with dark beams. I no longer notice the stench, or the sea air that mingles with it. I have no thoughts for yesterday or tomorrow. I only know that I must reach the bakery by dawn or some family's won't eat today. I've tied the dog up with his leash, I think I've done it correctly, otherwise he'd be long gone by now. How he such a well behaved dog escaped in the first place was none of my business, but it did confuse me to some degree.

Ben was in work today, I like Ben. Some folks wear a smile, this guy was the smile. Everything about him was a soft and understated joy as he greeted each person. People went there for the lovely baked goods, but they must've gotten so much more. Me and all those other people were the patients in his surgery as he asked us about our day, our lives and welcomed the emotions that tiptoed out. Today his hair looks different. His beard was softer. It took that boyish face and made him so pretty, everyone loved it. He was a carrot top, as was I, but he never liked that word, carrot top. He's never told me why, but I don't pester.

Over the years, that man has become my father figure, acting as such because he's never been able to have children. He's a widow, poor thing, he doesn't talk about her, doesn't talk about his life as much as everyone else, but that was his game. Know before questioned and If he doesn't know something, he'll find out soon enough, surrounding himself with books and people. That was his coping mechanism, and of course, I have picked up the same thing, just less books. The door rings as I enter, chiming with the taped on bell. This time it doesn't fall, but with each unlucky time, the sore on my head only grows. He looks at me, beard sways as does his head and his eyes light with a fire that closely matches his hair. He hugs me, knowing I don't like physically touch and ignoring it. The shop today looked cleaner than usual, perhaps I had given him enough time, or perhaps today was one of his happier days.

This was the kind of shop you wondered about, that you felt your soles move toward, as if in there upon a shelf was a piece of your own life-puzzle. The bakery was a converted cow barn, rustic on the outside and perfection on the inside. The breads were all local grain and the variation was amazing. There were plaits and cobs, buns and cakes, soda breads and flat breads... so much. As kids, we would ride our bikes there on a Saturday, early in the day as the sun was rising, and spend the rest of it at the river with a bounty of baked goods and the fruits of the season. Oh, how I missed my past friends, but people must move on. Getting married and starting families, that was all this town recognized and all anyone ever knew.

I move to the back, putting my stuff down and watching as my bag squirms, out comes Duke. I hide him, not as easy as I would have anticipated, but he abides and stays quiet, Ben won't find him for a good while. I look again, my apron is no where to be seen and today I may have to work without it, but Ben's is wrapped happily around his big stomach. The apron is more food than fabric. He wears it like a battle scar, proudly defiant. Somewhere beneath the mass of batter smears is the reindeer pattern of a Christmas gift and the tethers show errant loose thread as they are torn away from the fabric.

I have two minutes before I am called to work once more, I move to the back and there they were, the antiques. I wandered between them, taking in the curves of each, letting my brain think as perhaps the makers did. To me, each one of them was tiny time machine, or perhaps a window into other eras and in ways, they related to both God and nature. But as time passed, so did my paycheck and I was never payed well to sit and stare. I had learned well over the past couple of years. Chipped fingernails, calloused hands, it had all become part of such a miserable routine. Something I had no other choice but to break, it was a miracle anybody would have stepped foot so far from the city.

The cinnamon buns had risen from their muffin pan casings like unfurled telescopes. Inside the delicate swirl of butter-rich dough were apple chunks coated in the cinnamon sugar, they looked delectable and I couldn't help but reward myself with pride. The cinnamon buns are criminally easy to make and a crime for my waistline. After all, these were my specialty. Before they'd been out of the oven a full minute there was an empty spot in the tray and Ben was nowhere to be seen. I shrugged, taking his theft as a compliment, but I soon learned it wasn't him, no, it was the visitors seating themselves in the corner. I hadn't even seen them walk in, but there they were, happy as ever.

Today I am late, late for lunch, late for work, late for everything. The people who have discovered this place are tourists, one can tell by their thin clothing and standing positions, so perhaps they will not bother with such late service, given not to expect much from such a small local bakery. But I pride myself in my work and my early time. So today there are no delays. No exceptions. Not even for the canine stuffed in my backpack.

There are four of them, two guys, one girl. The blond one, tall, at least a couple feet above the average man, he's the thief. His hair was a mop of blond strands, framing his eyes which were blue like the water bottle caps in the fridge behind him. He kept it back normally, looking at the mark on his head and the parting of his hair, maybe with a headband, maybe a bandana. The other boy has a lost look about him, as if he was recently awoken from a nap. Looking more closely I see that the blond one holds his hand. They weren't a couple, no, this was how brothers love, subtle in their protective ways. They must have a good role model to feel so comfortable showing their love for one another so well.

The girl was clearly deep in thought, journeying through some creative stream only she could sense. She had a voice that was like music under a summer breeze, almost lost against the noise of the Monday morning traffic, It was a wonder those boys listened to her, let alone heard her. She had cheeks that were rouged and she was dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and a grey band shirt. She was so obviously one of them, perhaps dating one as well, no sensible local would wear such unfit summer clothes.

I can’t help but feel a bit confused. If my hands weren’t occupied, I'd grab my phone to make sure I don't have a missed a text from Roger about dropping new visitors on the island with his shipment. Or even from someone in the Dunn family. As owners of the grocers/general store, they’re normally the first to know about any visitors. News travels fast on the island and gossip usually goes through the sixty people who permanently live on Fair Isle in less than thirty minutes – ten if the news is particularly juicy. Between whispers, phone calls and texts but, no one is left out of the loop. Theirs is not a land of mystery, no matter how many tourists operate under the flawed romantic notion of outlandish isolation associated with the island lifestyle.

Ben took their order of course, this was his speciality. With his bright red hair, it was as if God himself had designed him to be such a noticeable social creature. Their talk was littered with smiles and it scares me, how happy they appear. Most tourists stranded here are unhappy, ungrateful, but these people are far from these sorts. I feel bad for them, they must be cold and embarrassed in such cold, even if they fail to show it. I take my sweater off, my shirt riding up until I feel, what I assume, Ben's hand pulling it down. I regret this decision, not only is it cold, but the hand belongs to someone other than the Ben I know and love.

I meet my prosecutor. He's tall, he's handsome, and he's breathing down my back as my shirt is softly lifted down. He must respect women, I hope he does. The boy is somewhat too tall for his build; were he a few inches shorter he would be all the more handsome for it. It was as if he stopped growing only to be stretched on one of those medieval racks a half-foot more. He stopped, asking me if I was ok, if I needed anything. His accent was such a playful tune, as if he were the star of his own movie, but last time I checked, I was the server and he, the costumer. If I was a mistrustful person, I'd find him suspicious. As it is, I'm mostly intrigued. But of course, Ben is quick to call me behind the counter, he's protective of me. I see no threat, but I am not one to judge the old mans instincts.

"I don't like those boys, they're bad news." I watch him bake, he's no where near as bad as me, he's mastered his craft and deserves much more brownie points than I can possibly give. Of course he's not doing it as well as the usual, not with anger driving that knife, cutting through the dough with elegance and ease. "No sane boyo puts his hands down a girls shirt, I tell ya that." He's growling now, no elegance. No ease. His accent has thickened and it's a matter of time before someone, that poor boy, gets trapped in the blades.

I turn around and walk back behind the counter, fingers drumming on the reception counter for a second before I lift myself to the tip of my toes, curling my body over it to look at the shelf hidden from sight. It’s a mess, there’s no way around it, with various receipts and post-its scattered around between pens, two novels and Tunnock’s caramel wafer wrappers right next to a rusty red and yellow Lipton tea tin where Ben hides his favorite snacks. I hum to myself before grabbing a black pen, pushing the wrappers around until I finally finds notepad. "Whats their names, they're new, are they not?"

"Oh yeah, new as fresh baked bread. I dunno their names. You're an artist, just draw them." I'm not a good artist, but of course there is no room to tell him that because he has disappeared once more to scatter my stuff and eat his diabetic candy. He has his rituals, we all do.

I look at the boys now, they've got their symmetrical faces and sharp cheekbones. The girls got the same, less defined, but who am I to talk, there's not much blade under my chin. I add there heights, estimating, but I can't be far off. Something tall, that should be enough. I have markers somewhere behind this desk, somewhere below this mess of wrappers and hobbies. I study them, their movements. They're not the kings of posture, anyone could've told me that. They're still happy, but ones staring at me. He's caught my gaze soon enough and of course, he doesn't drop it. Only a coward would drop such easy eye contact.

We stare at each other in silence for a beat. Then two.

He's the same one who helped me fix my shirt, in Ben's words, The pervert. But I see him as a gentlemen, what does Ben know about teenage boys? I doubt he's ever been younger than thirty. But I don't tell him that, I remind him that he doesn't look a day over twenty five and he's happy, usually. Around closing time I do the usual. I remind him of his age, clean, and fix my sweater. From out the closet comes Ben, angry, and I'm not glad because today was supposed to be payday. I should stay quiet for this one, but who am I to abide such stupid rules? "What's got you in such a discouraged mood?"

"I don't want those boys coming 'round here anytime soon, don't trust them with this store."

"Why would they have this store?"

"Did I not tell ya? One of those weirdoes applied to work here, yes he did. I watched him march straight through and sign those papers," he gestures towards the papers on the desk. Of course I didn't see them, not under that pile of rubbish, "Weird little name he's got as well, wonder where he's from."

I stroll towards the desk once more, broom in hand and leash in pocket, only slightly sticking out. It's a wonder someone like Ben failed to spot such a noticeable thing, but I don't jinx myself, I shouldn't on a day like today. I find the papers, not easily, and they're surrounded by wrappers and trash, but I find them and they are readable. The boys got a pretty signature, really pretty, even better than Ben's, who, even though he's got such a standardized way of living, is elegant in his own little ways. His name is pretty as well, Calum, I like that name. I find my notebook, and just above his terribly drawn picture I place his delectable name. _Calum_.


End file.
